Pretty
by Obsideor
Summary: Circumstance can be most peculiar. MarkxRoger Prequel to the movie and play. Rated T for language and later slash. Look forward to fluff!
1. Bicycle

Wow. Just, wow. Fanfiction. I haven't written one of these in…man, I don't even know how long. I had an epic Doctor Who one going…but I'm kind of ashamed of that now :/ Anyone think I should finish it? That was ages ago. Well, I hope I haven't lost my touch ;) Enjoy!

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He didn't smoke, but it hardly mattered. When you spend most of your days trudging around the soiled streets of New York City, scraping a living from bits of muddy film, inhaling copious amounts of smoke is inevitable. Mark knew he would probably die of lung cancer and malaria and herpes and everything else on the goddamn planet someday, but right now, he wouldn't worry about that.

Today was hardly different from yesterday, or next Thursday, or half a week past last Monday's fortnight. Today was another butter slice of time and space, another thread that Mark could immortalize in something that might last beyond its own memory. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He had almost no doubt in his mind that this life would amount to hardly more than nothing once all was said and done. This half-assed Bohemian existence would come back to bite him in the end. All the alcohol and apathy would still sting in his veins even if he lived to be one hundred. Still, he gently coaxed it into his camera, so that his prodigy (if he had any) would be able to know what killed their father.

A breeze blew as he cruised along on his third or fourth-hand bike, something unwelcome in mid-November New York. Mark squinted as it dipped under his glasses and made his eyes water. He felt his gold squash hair ruffle up and around, but he'd been told it looked good on him, so he let it style itself. A small girl with junkie circles under her eyes passed and smiled, and he inwardly blushed. Maybe they'd been right…

A small bolt of inspiration hit, and he leapt of the bike; he caught it before the bag corded to the back hit the ground. Fumbling with the cold, he shook his camera from the khaki depths and smushed in the power button. He cradled the device and captured the image of the girl walking away, nearly lonely on the salty sidewalk, looking so small in her long black coat. Maybe it was symbolism: maybe it was just lust. Mark sighed and let the camera slide back inside its bag.

"Hey! Hold up a sec!"

Mark had just swung his leg around the bike when he awkwardly twisted around to see what the commotion was. To his surprise, a young man was hurtling directly towards him, the guitar case on his back bouncing wildly and occasionally smacking the owner in the back of the head.

"Hey, pumpkinhead!" He skidded to a halt in front of Mark and doubled over, leaning on his knees as he gasped for breath. "I know this is weird and all but…god, they're gonna kill me if I don't show. Shit…"

"Um…" Mark stammered, not quite sure what a good response would be. "What's the problem?"

The man donned plaid maroon pants and a tight black t-shirt that hugged his chest and abdomen; Mark could make out traces of three delicate circles through the fabric. His face, bony and pale, curled into a small cleft out which dusty brown stubble poked. Dark roots clashed sharply with the pale sand color his spiked hair had been dyed. His eyes, a deep blue that was much richer and much more captivating than Mark's own, seemed to have a soul all on their own. Two silver hoops sprouted from each lobe. His arms were thin, but not too thin; the lean rather than drug-addicted build. Then again, it was hard to tell these days.

"Listen, man…I'm in a band, see, and we're rehearsing _right now_ for this important gig, and I'm already a half hour late, and if I don't get there….well, first of all, I'll get kicked out. I don't even want to know what else they'll do to me." His words tumbled out in an almost inaudible mess. "Could I maybe borrow your bike?"

Mark stared stupidly at the man as if he couldn't believe he was there. Which we couldn't. "So…you want me to lend you my bike?"

The musician tried to hold back a look of exasperation, but Mark caught it anyway. "Yeah. I'll bring it back and everything! I just…if I don't use it, I'll never get there in time. It's like twenty blocks away." He bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet and glanced over Mark's shoulder. "Please?"

Expressionlessly, Mark eased his leg back over the seat and pushed the bike towards him. "Here."

With a look of pure ecstasy, the other man grabbed it and looked back at Mark. "Seriously?" Receiving a nod, he cried, "Thanks! Aw, man, this is great. Look, after rehearsal, I'll bring it back. Code of honor and shit. Where do you live?"

"You know that old recording studio on Avenue B?"

"Yeah, sure."

"There. Loft."

The guitarist chuckled, and Mark tried to suppress the blood rushing to his face. "Really? Wow, you got it rough. Ok, I'll be there at, say, midnight? Maybe later. See you, man!" He leapt dexterously onto the rusty bike and pushed off. "I'm Roger, by the way!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"I – I'm Mark! I'm…Mark…." But Roger was already too far away to hear. "And…that's my bag…on the back…of the bike…my bag…you're riding away…oh, shit."

Mark stood there for a long time staring after the guy who now held about 75% of his worldly possessions. He hadn't just done that. He hadn't just unquestioningly handed over his bicycle to a complete stranger. That just wasn't something Mark did. Ever. _Ever_. Without a thought, he'd just…what the fuck?! And he'd forgotten to take his bag! What was he going to do without it? Mark had no doubt he would never see either, bike or bag, ever again. Why had he done it? As he dragged his feet the few blocks back to the loft, the question rolled around unchecked. Once there, it dawned on him, carrying with it a shitload of embarrassment and a few more deep blushes. He wouldn't have done it if…well, if…if Roger hadn't been so…so…well, so…pretty.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Not much, I know, but a start! A leap back into the Fanfiction world! Trust me, it will get better and hotter as time goes on :) Please review! Even if you have only one word!


	2. Nyquil

Off to a good start, eh? :) I certainly think so, considering I have not written a fic in an obscenely long time D: Thanks so much, everyone!! I LOVE YOU ALL!!

Disclaimer: If I owned Rent…well, let's just say that Anthony Rapp would be on this aerobed, too :3

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"You did what?"

"Don't give me that. He was in trouble, he needed the bike."

"Yeah, but you just gave it to him." Collins snorted and pushed himself off the couch. "That's pretty stupid, even for you." Glass clinked as he poured himself a glass of God knew what.

"I know that! All right?! Chances are I will never see my camera again. Oh my God…" The realization head-butted him once again, and he pressed his palms into his eye sockets, trying to block out the despair filling them. "My camera is gone. All of my film is gone. My whole means of making a living is gone." He too rose from the squishy depths and shuffled to the kitchen. "Gimme that," he muttered, swiping Collins's secret concoction and downing it in one gulp. Collins snickered and let a tiny smile creep onto his face. "Hope you enjoy the succulent sweetness of Nyquil."

Mark faux gagged and grinned back. "Make some more of that stuff."

"Since when are you a hard drinker?"

"Since 75% of my life was swept away before my very eyes. Get mixing."

Shaking his head amusedly, Collins began pulling bottles from the medicine cabinet, liquor corner, and fridge alike. "Hey, you did most of the sweeping there, my friend. The broom was all yours. And I'm worth at least 35%."

Mark laughed and fell face-first back onto the mushy sofa. "Shut up. Ok, so 65%. Whatever, I really hate numbers," he mumbled into the cushion.

"Hey, cheer up, Pumpkin." (Mark flipped him the bird.) "At least you still have me to keep your skinny ass out of debt."

"And to buy my skinny ass some sketchy alcohol now and then." Mark gratefully accepted the mug that was handed to him and took a smoldering sip.

"You know it." They clinked glasses and chuckled, each settling into their own private comfort.

OoOoOoO

Mark was brought abruptly to consciousness by the sound of banging on the door.

"Hello?" cried a voice. "Anyone home? Anyone conscious? Hello???" The deep, resonant pounding on the huge metal door resumed.

Rolling not-so-gracefully off the couch, Mark thudded to the floor, tipping the plastic coffee table; the arm previously holding the alcohol mug twisted awkwardly behind him, and pain drove up from his wrist to his eyes. As he clamored to his feet, he felt a blossom of cold running down his hand and wrist. He looked down in horror to see the palm of his hand sliced open by a broken fragment of mug, red runnels spreading like a Japanese fan. "Shit," he muttered, trying to sop up the blood on his light blue t-shirt. "Shit, shit, shit…" Nearly slipping again, he managed to reach the door and heave it open without further injury.

"Hey," Roger began uncomfortably. "Is this a bad time?" he asked hesitantly, getting a good look at the hung-over, wrinkled clothing, rat's nest hair, hunched over in pain, glasses askew, blood-covered boy peering dazedly up at him.

"No, no," Mark mumbled. "What…_ever_ gave you that impression?"

Missing or ignoring the sarcasm, he continued, "Can I come in?" He gestured to the bike at his side. "Told you I'd bring it back."

"Oh…sure. Yeah, c'mon in." Mark shoved his glasses further up his nose and stared at the blood trickling off his fingers. "Shit…" he cursed under his breath.

"Whoa," Roger said, an alarmed look in his eyes. "You didn't do that to yourself, did you?" Frowning, he lightly touched Mark's shoulder, forcing Mark to look him in the eye. "That…that looks bad."

The concern in his face would have been touching had Mark not felt like such an idiot at the moment; he almost laughed at his own absurd appearance. Wiping more blood on his ruined shirt, he stuttered, "What? No, oh…n-no, just the mug, over there…yeah…" He waved his bleeding hand in the direction of the wreckage. "I was just stupid..." He unthinkingly held the wound out for Roger so he could see that it wasn't across his wrist.

Roger scratched his neck and tried to look less relieved than he did. "Great. Good. That's…that's good. Well, hey, I, uh, brought your bike back. Nice camera, by the way."

Mark glanced up at him in surprise. "You opened my bag?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Was that bad? I didn't take anything, just looking. It fell off the bike, I wanted to make sure it was okay. Vintage?"

This was so awkward. Why was this so awkward? Mark didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to do? "16mm Bolex. Not really. Looks like it though." He tugged open the bag and pulled out the camera. "Hope it still works…"

"Aw shit, I hope I didn't break it…" Roger glanced at him guiltily.

"Let's take a look." Mark flicked on the power and held it up to his eye. There it was: a lovely, grainy image of Roger. Wait, did he just think 'lovely'? He did not just think the word 'lovely'.

"Hi!" Roger laughed, waving a little. "Is it working?"

"Looks fine," Mark replied, switching it off, though for some reason, he didn't want to. "Thanks, you know. I didn't really expect you to bring it back."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you! If you hadn't lent it to me, I'd be out of a career, a home, and friends." Roger tried to laugh this off, but Mark could tell it still bothered him.

"No problem. Really. So, what band do you play in?"

"The Lonely Truckers. No, don't laugh," he pleaded, watching a grin spread on Mark's face. "It's just a working title, I swear. I know it sucks. The bassist suggested it, and everyone just goes along with him. I swear to God I will leave if we don't change it."

Mark bit his lower lip as he smiled at the absurd band name. "No offense, but I don't think I'd come see a band called 'The Lonely Truckers.'"

"None taken. I wouldn't, either. Hey, you should come to a show! Drinks on me, to pay you back."

Taken aback, Mark immediately accepted. "Sure. That'd be great. I don't have anything better to do, anyway." _Shit_. "Not that I wouldn't come anyway." _Double shit._ "I mean…yeah. Sure. When?" He pressed the bloody cut to his stomach to keep from further staining the floor. Collins would be pissed as it was.

Roger thought for a minute. "Hmm…what's today? Thursday?"

"Friday."

"Shit, really? Okay, then tonight. 7:30, McRory's. You know where that is?"

"Across from the deli?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome," Mark said, smiling shyly and nodding perhaps a bit too vigorously. "Wow. Thanks. I'll…I'll be there."

Roger's face broke into a relieved smile. "Hey, thanks. I don't get a lot of people coming to them that I know. Hell, I don't get a lot of people coming, period. I'll see you then. Meet you at the bar after the show."

Happier than he let show, Mark nodded some more. "Definitely."

"I'll just lean your bike over here…Oh, hey," he said suddenly, turning back around. "What's your name, again? You never said…" He laughed, and Mark might've imagined his minute blush. _Wait a sec. Look at this guy._ Yeah. He'd definitely imagined it.

"Oh…Mark. I'm Mark. Mark Cohen." He held out his hand to shake, artfully ripping his cut from the bandage of his shirt. "Oh…" He extended his left hand instead

Roger smirked and shook. "Roger Davis, at your service."

"Nice to meet you, Roger Davis." He didn't want to let go.

"You too, Mark Cohen." He slipped his hand from Mark's weak grip and headed out. "See you later."

"Yeah, see you," he murmured, but again, Roger was too far gone already. He wondered if there would be more opportunities for Roger to miss his last words. He certainly hoped so.

He briefly considered sliding the short bit film into the projector and watching it, but then he'd just get blood all over it. It would have to wait. And last. Hopefully.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Ahhh, it's getting there! A plot is developing! Aren't you curious about how it will play out? I know I sure am :) Feedback of any kind is much appreciated! :D


	3. Migraine

This is getting to a bit of a slow start, I will admit. But don't worry, all you fellow slash fans! You won't be disappointed ;) Any suggestions for how I should continue it? Should I switch to Roger's POV? Anyway, please continue! :)

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns Rent, the lucky, genius bastard. Then again, he's dead. Touché. Just kidding :) I love Jonathan Larson.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mark knew it was lame, but he spent about an hour trying to decide what to wear to Roger's show. He felt like a teenage female groupie. _Red shirt? Blue shirt? Red and blue shirt? Other red and blue shirt?_ Mark groaned and threw each article of clothing back in the heap in the corner of his room. His mother had picked out his clothes his entire life, and he hadn't deviated much from her chosen color scheme once he left home. Pathetic. Groaning, he yanked on a white shirt with artistic-looking red and blue lines cutting randomly across his chest. It was a little tight, but it would have to do. The smudged, dusty mirror told him he looked rather good, but of course it was lying. He wondered vaguely if anyone else would agree with the mirror. Maybe he'd meet a girl. Maybe he'd take her home. Maybe…No way. Nearly laughing aloud at that embarrassing thought, he led his bike out the door, not bothering to sling on a coat. Coats at bars are about as uncool as you can get, not to mention a great target for muggers.

Why was he doing this? Why was he going to this show? Even when he'd been at NYU, so many short months ago, he'd never been social. He hadn't had friends. He wouldn't have even known Collins had he not been a guest speaker in 'Political Activism in the Contemporary Period' first semester. He'd been the albino kid with the dorky glasses and strangely color-coordinated wardrobe. What was so special about today? About this moment? About… Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a fluke. A coincidence. It was his chance, and he was going to take it. Although…no. Nothing.

Chaining his bike to a nearby parking meter, he hesitantly nudged the door of McRory's open. It was 7:15; the band wouldn't be on for at least forty-five minutes (the hippest bands were never on time). He hadn't been to this bar before, though he'd walked past it a million times. No one seemed to want to spin a conversation with him, which was all right by him, and he made himself comfortable on a tufty* leather stool.

It was interesting to watch people as they lived past him, breathed next to him, involuntarily stayed alive all around him, but not nearly as interesting as it was to watch Roger sing. All his little expressions had Mark captivated. He stood out from his music, but somehow blended with it. His face grew slick with a thin layer of sweat, and he grinned and wiped it away multiple times, his spikes getting wilder each time. Mark found himself unable to look away as he focused all his effort on two senses: hearing and sight. The audience didn't want to let the band leave the stage, but Mark could hardly wait. He was thirsty, after all.

"Hey!" Roger breathed excitedly as he finally arrived at the bar, after pushing his way through the half-clamoring fans. "Didn't think you'd make it."

"You either," Mark answered.

"It's my show, why wouldn't I be here?" he laughed. "Get me a Migraine," he addressed to the bartender

"What? Oh, no…That is, I didn't think you'd be _here_. Like, _here_ here. In this bar. With me. I didn't think you'd show. And did you just ask for a migraine?"

"It's a drink. Black and white sambuca. And why wouldn't I show?" He threw the tiny shot down his throat and winced dramatically. "Just keep those coming. Here, have one." Roger slid a shot toward Mark, who, startled, accepted it and gingerly lifted it to his lips. "Nah, you gotta just pour it down there." Mark tipped his head back and gulped it down. "Not so bad, is it?"

"No, pretty good, actually," he coughed, smiling. "Better than Collins' shit," he added as an afterthought.

"Who?"

"Oh, just my roommate. He wasn't there when you came by. He's crazy, he's a total genius but does all this shit that I've never seen anyone else do. He's real handy at mixing drinks made from over-the-counter meds and cheap liquor." Mark swallowed a couple more of the burning drinks. Why had he been nervous? This was good. This was working out. He was cool. This was cool. Roger was cool. Roger was _really_ cool. These drinks were cool. Mark was cool!

Roger, eyes wandering, nodded. "That's cool." Yes, it was. What was in these drinks? _Liquid coolness? _Mark thought. _That must be it_.

"Yo, Rog!" A guy Mark vaguely recognized as being in the band with Roger appeared at the bar. "The dudes are all back there. Neil's got the stuff. You comin'?"

"Oh, yeah…sure." Roger slid off his seat and set his empty glass down. "You take the rest of these," he said, gesturing to the few drinks left on the bar. "See you around." The bandmate slung his arm around Roger's shoulders and something inside Mark compressed, something in the left part his abdomen. Before he allowed himself to think, he downed the Migraines that were left and hunched himself over on the bar. This was not cool anymore.

He looked at the clock and saw the minute hand nearing the three. How long had he been brooding here? People were still partying, but with considerably less vigor and considerably more alcohol. Roger had not come back. Mark drifted out the door in a heavy haze and nearly stepped on the silver ring-clad fingers lying almost across the doorway.

"Roger?" Mark mumbled, squinting at the figure leaning on the outside of McRory's.

Roger didn't hear him. His eyes were glazed over, as if he has his own lenses in through which to see the world. His mouth, partly open, drooled slightly. He didn't seem at all connected to the world around him, the complete one-eighty of the rock star Mark had been mesmerized by earlier that night. "Roger?" he repeated, louder this time.

"Hey," he rasped, swinging his head around to stare in Mark's direction. "Hey."

"What…are you doing out here?"

His face crumpled. "I don't know, man. My bros…where are they? I think…I think they left. I think they left me. They took our van. I think they left me." His words were ragged and seemed to roll around in his mouth before they left.

"Oh, man…is there anything I can do?" Mark was slightly afraid of this clearly stoned-to-epic-proportions version of Roger.

"Take me home. Take me to my apartment, man. Please, they left me. I've gotta get home. Everyone's there. Everyone's waiting for me. I think they left me."

"Roger, I don't know where you live." Receiving no response, he gave Roger's shoulder a small shake. "Roger. Tell me where you live and I'll take you there."

"Gotta…get home…" he moaned, his head rolling from side to side.

"Ah…" Mark sighed pityingly. "Get up." He somehow hoisted the much more muscular man halfway around his shoulders and began to semi-drag him down the sidewalk. "Let's get you out of here, at least."

OoOoOoO

Mark hadn't regretted his lack of muscle mass more than he did right now. Roger was _heavy_, dammit. Skinny as he was, he had rock-hard arms, and Mark was sure the rest of him was just as ripped. He was grateful when they reached home and he could let Roger tumble gawkily onto the couch.

"Roger?" No answer. "_Roger_? I'm going to sleep now. You can stay here and leave in the morning, ok?" It didn't look like Roger had heard him, but he turned to go anyway. "'Night."

But before he even took a step, Roger's fingers wrapped around the hem of his t-shirt, and he froze, eyes wide. "Alan?" he mumbled drowsily, pulling the fabric taut. "Alan, come back."

"I-I'm not Alan," he stuttered, and fell awkwardly back onto the couch. "Roger, it's me. Mark. You're in my apartment. It's going to be okay. Roger, stay with me." Roger's hand let go and travelled up one of the blue lines on Mark's shirt, all the way to his collarbone. Mark shivered as one sweaty finger traced the bone back and forth. "Roger…" he breathed shakily. "What - "

"Alan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it…I'm sorry," Roger sobbed. "I swear I didn't know." His face was a mess of sweat, tears, and five o'clock shadow, and he smelled like an alleyway, but Mark couldn't move. He couldn't even look away. He stared, terrified and entranced, at Roger. Something jolted in his stomach as the finger moved up his neck and to his jaw. Roger's eyes, unfocused and watering, travelled almost hungrily along his jawbone and up to Mark's wide eyes. "You have pretty cheeks," he slurred, his breath tickling the hairs on the back of Mark's neck. It was hot in here. Was it hot? It definitely was. The loft wasn't ever hot in winter, but Mark knew it had to be now. It was very, very warm in the apartment.

"Roger…what…are you doing?" he exhaled, as Roger's whole hand cupped his jaw. The guitarist's calluses pressed into Mark's soft skin, and Mark gasped. "Roger - "

The hand went limp as Roger slumped into unconsciousness, his head falling heavily into Mark's lap. Mark made no effort to move, and did his best to ignore the strange, crushing pressure. He managed to nod off to sleep before Collins came home, who, with an amused grin, chuckled as he strolled into his bedroom, arm-in-arm with a handsome young man named Benny.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

I don't have much practice writing stomach-clenching steamy scenes, but I'm developing my skills :) Any tips? Hahaha.

*Why yes, I did make up the word 'tufty'. Got a problem with that?! Huh?!?!


End file.
